


Sweet Sacrifice

by princess_schez



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-30
Updated: 2014-10-30
Packaged: 2018-02-23 07:06:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 10
Words: 11,135
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2538794
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/princess_schez/pseuds/princess_schez
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>It's true, we're all a little insane,</i> but none more so than the Dark Lord Voldemort. Evil is prevailing in the Wizarding world, and in the three years since the Trio's graduation from Hogwarts, things have only gotten worse. Everyday for the past three years, the Death Eaters have kidnapped a young woman for Voldemort to torture and kill before sunrise. Hermione wants the brutality to end... at any costs....</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Transformation

Voldemort's PoV

(Three years prior to the story taking place ...)

\---

 

Severus bows his head, a curtain of black hair covering his face as he holds a small vial in his hands. He is uneasy about this experiment, from what I see. His eyes refuse to meet mine, but his disquieted look tells me more than words could. The vial he holds in his hands smells strongly of burning flesh and dried blood; I inhale deeply the odor it gives off. While the odor may make others sick to their stomachs, it brings a smile to my face.

I order Severus to leave, but he hesitates.

"Sir, there may be complications with the potion," he says, bowing his head again. "Something of this nature has never been done before."

"Go," I order again. "If you have made this potion correctly, then there will not be any consequences. However, if you have made this incorrectly, you shall ... face my wrath."

Severus bows even lower, mumbling indignantly that he, indeed, "made it correctly," before placing the potion on a small end table and leaving. As I hear the door close behind him, I slip out of my robe, letting it fall to the floor. The late afternoon sun colors my pale, nude body a deep crimson hue as I grab the vial and take a deep breath. I am not doing this - changing my looks entirely - for simple vanity. I realized that I could inflict more strife upon the population than just merely killing them. As my old adversary would say: "There are worse things than death." Indeed. For some, certain acts are more horrific to suffer from than death itself.

I press the vial to my lips, tasting the acidic potion as it slides down the back of my throat. Immediately, my knees give out, and I am on the floor gasping for breath. After a moment, I feel my skin begin to seethe and swell. My brain swarms as though it has attracted millions of insects to it. I feel the urge to vomit wash over me as the crawling feeling erupts in my throat.

The sound of Severus' voice echoes through the door. I croak out a response as I slowly, unsteadily, begin to stand again. I squeeze my eyes shut to block out the brightness of the late afternoon sun. When I open  
them a second later, my skin is no longer deathly pale; it's a pale apricot color I remember from so long ago. How strange it is to feel warm blood coursing through my veins again.

Severus knocks on the door, and I bid him to enter.

"You have made the potion well," I say, still feeling over every space of my new body. "You shall not be facing my wrath."

"Yes, sir," he replies, his eyes fixed the ground. Perhaps seeing a naked man is bothersome to him, but I am not one to be troubled with such trivial things as immodesty.

"There is something I want to try tonight, something to celebrate my new transformation," I say.

"What is it, sir?"

"My brain burns and body aches with the thoughts of the fantasies that can only be satisfied by a young woman. Round up the others and go forth in your search. Use force to bring her in if you must. But remember, she is not to be touched. She is mine."

He silently leaves the room with my direct orders as I slip my robe back on, my thoughts racing.


	2. A Dangerous Plan

Hermione's PoV

\---

(Three years later ...)

Voldemort is, perhaps, the most evil and bloodthirsty Dark Lord that's ever been seen. Facing his wrath is something quite nasty to behold, from what I hear. The mere mention of his name can make hundreds cower in fear. He savors the killings of those he feels to be unworthy: the non-pureblood witches and wizards that help populate our world. Many brutal murders have taken place since his rebirth in our fourth year of school, many years ago. However, it is within the past three years that he has taken it upon himself to kidnap and rape young women - be they witch or Muggle. He completes this heinous task by killing the women before sunrise. His preferred choice of execution is using the Sectumsempra curse, decapitating his victims in a positively violent manner. To see such brutality, such bloodshed, deeply disturbs my sister Desdemona and me, as these murdered women are our siblings. They're not blood-related siblings like we are, but for the fact that we all are human - different, but still alike.

It is as I arrive at the steps of number 5 Sovereign Ave, the small flat my sister and I share, that I think these things. I can hear Desdemona's voice through the door as she fumbles with the locks I placed there for added security.

"Don’t forget to ask me the question," I say through the door, reminding her. This is merely a precautionary measure taken by the Ministry of Magic to crack down on Death Eaters impersonating other magical folk or Muggles. I have always enforced any type of security with my sister, seeing as how we live alone and are vulnerable.

"Oh, damn, I forgot," she sighs, unintentionally slamming the door in my face. "All right, what was my favorite story to have you read to me when I was little and why?" 

"Cinderella, because you said I always told you stories with vivid creativity. Okay, now what was your reaction when you learned I was a witch?"

Desdemona sighs. I know that she's thinking this is all a waste of time, but I firmly believe an ounce of prevention is worth a pound of cure. "Irritation and then finally, acceptance over how smashing it would be to have an actual, real life witch in the family."

Slowly, she opens the door, and I walk in.

"Was that all right?" she probes, raising a dark eyebrow.

I nod, giving her a smile and a hug, which she returned gratefully. Desdemona and I are as different as night and day. She with her dark brunette hair that lies perfectly straight, and me with my bushy hair that  
sticks out in every spot. Our temperaments are different too - with the occasional squabble here and there - but we love each other deeply all the same.

Since I graduated from Hogwarts three years ago, my younger sister and I watched as all the horrible events unfolded in the magical world. But no matter how grim things may be, she is great at making me laugh and helping me to unwind and forget the emotional pain after the long, excruciating days of helping the Order of the Phoenix.

The Order is in desperate need of any aid, especially with the recent loss of three more members. Parts of the magical populace are starting to view the Order as a lost cause, and they're refusing to join us. Because of the loss, the remaining members have to pull double duty just to make sure things run as smoothly as possible. Today is just another exhausting example of what our previous days have been like. Most of my mornings and afternoons are spent helping the Order prepare recovery missions. Between the planning, we have been healing our wounded fighters.

For over a year now, St. Mungo’s been closed, and their injuries are much too ghastly to be seen by Muggle doctors. Therefore, we treat them ourselves to the best of our abilities. However, Desdemona still knows and understands the problems taking place in the world I love so much.

It is because of our wanting the bloody massacres - not to mention the raping of women - to end, that my sister and I have schemed and plotted for the past few weeks, eventually coming up with a highly risky plan for making it all stop. The plan would entail me being captured and taken to Voldemort himself.

A risky plan? Yes. Dangerous? Absolutely. A rather suicidal mission that if it fails, would cost me my life. Yet if it's successful, and if I could somehow kill him, it would stop the needless violence against the innocent. However, it is the only plan we have, and tonight, I want to make it work. Ron Weasley, my boyfriend of three years, would never agree to my plan, fearing the consequences heavily outweighed the benefits. So he doesn't know anything about it, and I plan to keep it that way. Desdemona has sworn to me she wouldn’t tell him ... no matter the consequences. 

~*~

It is late into the evening now as I begin my dangerous trek into Diagon Alley. After I bid Desdemona a tearful good bye, I set off. She begged to come with me, but I would not allow it. Mum and Dad would be devastated over losing one child, but two would send them over the edge.

Looking at my wristwatch, I see the hands are pointing to 10:30 PM. A cold breeze sweeps by, sending a deep chill down my spine, as I stand completely alone in the dark and vacant streets of Diagon Alley. Since the second wizarding war broke out between my sixth and seventh years, the once quaint location where all magical folks could shop for their supplies has become a rundown, desolate place overrun by Death Eaters.  
Chipping paint and broken windows and doors stand as reminders to all of what was lost when the war began.

I hear a twig breaking in the distance. Someone is here with me; I can sense it. The hairs on the back of my neck stand up.

I walk further down the dark alley, my mind telling me that maybe this was not such a good idea after all. As I turn around to leave, thinking that perhaps no one is here, I hear the sounds of people Apparating all around me. My eyes scan nervously around the dark; I immediately pull my wand out for protection. The sounds of footsteps, swishing cloaks, and mumbled voices travel on the cold wind, filling my ears. A flash of silver light shoots out, barely missing my head by inches. I wave my wand, sending a Stunning spell their way as I duck; more shots miss me by mere inches. I see that ten Death Eaters now surround me.

"Wondering around at night, dearie?" one of them cackles. Immediately I recognize her harsh voice: Bellatrix Lestrange.

"She seems to have lost her way," says an unfamiliar voice.

More shots fire from different angles as long thin ropes encircle around me. I can only cast away so many of the curses before the full-body bind spell hits me in the shoulder blades. Unable to move, I am blindfolded from behind as a second person unzips my pants and slips their hand down my knickers. My breath catches in my throat as the person roughly grabs me, placing a finger slightly inside me.

"This one's still a virgin," Bella cackles, before removing her hand. "She'll be perfect for the Dark Lord."


	3. His Latest One

Chapter 2 His Latest One  
Tom's PoV

\---

Another day, another young woman under my control. My current one, a witch from up north, is cowering in the corner of my bedchamber. I know she is scared. Her screams are a dead giveaway every time I get near her. She watches me closely, taking in my every move. I can see it in her eyes, the fear of not knowing what is going to happen next; the waiting and the brutal agony is slowly eating her alive. Guilt and sadness float through her head, along with the wish for me to kill her - just to end her misery now. However, I am not thoroughly finished with her yet....

~*~

As the early rays of dawn slowly begin to break through the windowpanes, I look to my side to watch her through bleary eyes as she still sleeps. Her face is streaked with runny make-up and tears, and her body is wrapped soundly in a cocoon of white sheets. My eyes fall upon the old Victorian clock on the nightstand, where the hands are pointing at 5 A.M. Standing up, I quietly begin to search for my wand in the mess of clothes on the floor. I know I left it close by for this exact purpose. Ah, there it is, right beside the bed. I pick it up and raise it toward her as she mumbles softly into the morning air; I point it directly over her rising and falling chest. After years of raping and beheading my victims, I discovered that killing them was always more pleasurable while they are sleeping. It saves on the irritating begging for mercy. Though, I have let it go that far just to see the look of fear and life drain from their eyes ... to hear their last screams....

The young woman groggily opens her eyes and sits up in bed, looking at me as I stare back. She has served her purpose, and I do not need her anymore.

"Please don't," she begs. "I don't want to die ... I - I can be useful... please don't ..."

"Don't be afraid," I whisper. "Death is nothing to be frightened of. Though I wouldn't know anything about it, seeing as how I have never properly died before."

Her eyes slowly grew wide, almost to the point of them popping out of her head. She lets out a scream, but I merely laugh a contemptuous little laugh at her. The stupid, foolish girl.

"Scream as loudly as you want. It is just us here. Nobody will hear your foolish shouts but us."

She stops screaming, but I can see her eyes glowing brightly with tears again.

"Enjoy the silence, my dear Melinda," I say. " _Sectumsempra_!"

~*~

I stare out the window as the sun begins to gradually set in the late afternoon sky, plunging the room into semidarkness. It is hours later, yet I still have not clothed myself because I know my next victim will arrive shortly.

I am alone at the moment, having just finished cleaning the last of the girl's spattered blood from my walls and ceiling. I disposed of her in my usual fashion: I had her sent to the entrance of a little white church on the outskirts of Little Hangleton. I know the horrified clergymen will easily find her.

Resting a hand on the windowpane, I finger a small droplet of blood that has yet to be cleaned, letting it reflect the fading sunlight.

The blood reminds me of her and how I can force my way into them with absurd ease - teaching them to revel in the delight of my dominance over them and in the pleasure of enjoying something so forbidden - whether they want it or not.

My ears suddenly pick up a sound coming from downstairs. After a moment, I realize that the sound was only coming from this old, rickety house of my filthy father and his parents. I turn around and listen again, waiting, wondering when my Death Eaters will be back. I sent them out a few hours ago with direct orders to find my next captive. They have never failed me in this task before, owing to the fact they have impeccable tastes when finding my next casualty.

As I pace around the room, thoughts of when the wizarding world would finally be mine to control seep into my mind. The Order of the Phoenix has put up a tough battle for these few years, one that nobody had expected from them. Finally, after all this time, it seems as if I am finally breaking through their barrier and finally winning this war. Their side is dwindling now; hardly anybody wants to fight for fear of dying or losing a loved one. The Death Eaters and I have successfully shattered their spirit into fragments ...

Loud pops from a handful of my faithful servants echo on the ground floor and the sound of their familiar voices makes its way up to my room. They are back, bringing someone else for me to fulfill my dark evil fancies with tonight. 

Hastily throwing a robe on, I leave my room to meet the new prey. Looking down from atop the landing, I cannot help but laugh derisively to myself when I see whom they have brought for me this time .... They have fetched me a member of the elusive "Golden Trio": Miss Hermione Granger. And I must say, as I watch her from the landing, the look upon her face tells me she would rather be anyplace else but here.


	4. The Story Teller

Hermione's PoV

\---

Day One

 

Thump. Thump. Thump. Each deep footstep pierces right through me. My heart is beating so loudly it must be detectable to those around me. I am frightened and nervous. Yet knowing that I can possibly stop the brutal murders of witches and other innocent people fills me a small speck of bravery.

Voldemort waits atop the staircase, his black cloak swishing behind him. He inspects us all for a moment before continuing his way down the stairs, his long black hair floating gracefully around his head. He stops in front, checking us over - or more likely me - as though I am some kind of prized animal.

He pulls close, leaning his body into mine. I bite the inside of my mouth as I feel him touch me. Quick like spiders, his hands begin massaging my buttocks, moving up my front, and into my shirt. My breasts feel every inch and movement of his hands as he fondles them. Pulling back, his penetrating green eyes bore into mine.

"Tell me, little one," he says with a jeer, "what makes you different from the others I've had?"

"What?" I ask, feeling stupid and violated right now. My heart is pounding loudly in my ears....

"Each one I kidnap begs me not to behead them because they could be of some ‘use' to me. I want to find out why you think I should spare you."

"I - I can tell stories," I reply rather lamely. "I used to tell stories all the time to my younger sister when we were growing up."

Voldemort smiles his ghastly grin; the mere site of it turns my blood cold. "I shall be interested in hearing them, then."

He grabs my hand, leading me upstairs. All the while my heart is beating loudly and painfully in my chest. Here I am, literally being lead into the lion's den. How many other women thought they would survive, and yet, here I am willingly going with him. Perhaps it is as we walk down the long, dark hallway when I begin to realize that maybe my heart and head were so blinded by the need to stop the murders that I intentionally put myself in danger. But it is too late now to go back. I am here; I must at least try... or die fighting if I must. Voldemort opens a door for me to enter. It is then - as I pass by the doorframe that I see a small speck of blood. I swallow hard at the sight of it. This must be the place where he decapitates his victims... right here in his room. He pushes me in the rest of the way and closes the door behind him.

"Well," he says, "what kind of story are you going to tell me, then?"

I clear my throat, trying to buy some time as I think of a story to tell. Truth is, I never actually planned on one.

Tom carelessly throws his robe to the ground as he sits his naked self on the bed. But he does not offer me a place to sit. I am left standing in the middle of the room with Tom's harsh, soulless eyes watching my every move.

I clear my throat again and force myself to think of something... anything. Thinking is usually my forte, acing nearly every school examination and test. But as my life is depending on my brain now, it suddenly seems to have forgotten how to work....

Tom quirks an eyebrow at me, growing impatient from my lack of speaking. Clearing my throat for a third time, I begin, "Ali Baba is the poor, kind brother who gains a fortune when he spies forty thieves opening a secret door on the command ‘Open, Sesame'."

I stop, looking at Tom for approval to continue. He nods his head in a semi-amused way, so I continue.

"Once they leave, he tries it himself, discovers their treasures, and takes some home. To estimate their fortune before burying it, he and his wife borrow a measure from his wealthy - and nosey and greedy - brother and sister-in-law, who secretly place a pat of suet in the bottom to see what kind of grain Ali Baba needs to measure. When they return the cup, it has a gold coin stuck to the suet, and Cassim demands to be let in on the secret, which Ali Baba gladly reveals. Cassim makes the trip to the secret door, opens it, and is dazzled into forgetting the magic word. The thieves return and kill him, hanging his quartered body inside the door. Ali Baba discovers the body, takes it home, and, as is the custom, offers to take care of his brother's wife by marrying her and sharing both their fortunes - with his wife and son, too. Ali Baba enlists the clever slave girl Morgiana to keep the thieves from killing him as well...."

~*~

The sun is pouring into the room now, illuminating the once dark and dreary bedroom. Tom is hanging onto my every word, listening with rapt attention.

"They should really name the next part of the story ‘Morgiana the Clever,' if you ask me, for Ali Baba fades into the background as Morgiana outwits everyone. She tricks a tailor and an apothecary into helping her give the appearance that Cassim has died of natural causes. When the thieves come after Ali Baba, having learned that he knows their secret cave, she pours boiling oil into the clay jars in which they had hidden and slays their king in a dance of daggers. Ali Baba sets Morgiana free, and she and his son eventually marry. Ali Baba shares the secret of the hidden treasure with them, and they live happily, and in splendor to the end of their days. The end."

Tom looks at me. He was completely dead tired, but he had stayed awake nonetheless to hear the rest of my story.

"I wish to tell you about another famous thief. Perhaps you've heard of the legend of Aladdin?"

"No, but tell me the story about him," he orders, staring at me with his intense green eyes, which are lined with red veins from lack of sleep.

"I will tell it tonight," I say, smiling slyly. Tom looks at me, his tired mind slowly comprehending that he would have to postpone my execution if he wished to hear the next story. He narrows his eyes, looking at me as if I were something of derision.

"Very well," he growls. "But don't think that I'm sparing your life today because I like you." With that, he leaves the room, and I am completely alone to celebrate my surviving the day.


	5. Tom's Doll

Tom's PoV

\---

Days Forty-five - One Hundred fifteen

Her words are finely spun like silk: soothing to the touch and exquisitely delicate. They linger in my ears and in my head, each craving another. Against my better judgment, I have kept Hermione alive longer than I have kept any other captive. I am not a person swayed easily with words, but I forget such things when she weaves her tales. Like the clearest of pictures, I see each image that she speaks. I actually feel like she has taken me to these places. Her recent story is no exception:

_"Aladdin was a street urchin whose lazy ways were the death of his father and the deepest despair of his mother. One day, an evil magician gave him a magic ring and attempted to deceive him into retrieving a magical lamp. However, Aladdin foiled his trick, saved his own skin, and emerged with the lamp to boot, along with some jewels that he thought were fruit. When his mother polished the lamp, a hideous genie emerged. Aladdin asked him for food, which the genie delivered instantly on silver plates. Used to living from hand to mouth, Aladdin sold the plates one by one as they needed money, and thus they lived comfortably for several long years._

_One day Aladdin caught a glimpse of the princess and set his mother to ask for her hand. She took some of the jewel-fruits with her; and when the sultan saw them all aglitter, he was inclined to agree. But his vizier, who wanted to give his own son a chance to compete, suggested a delay._

_The king told Aladdin's mother to come back in three months; but then, two months later, an announcement was made of the princess's marriage to the vizier's son. Then, Aladdin called upon his genie to whisk away the wedding bed - bride, groom, and all. The genie did that for three nights, returning it each morning, and the frightful trips convinced the groom to relinquish his hold on the princess...."_

Another thing I have been seeing vividly is these dreams that have taken over my mind at night. For the past thirty days, I have been having this dream repeatedly: It is a clear, spring day. A warm breeze can be felt in the air, and a buzz of sweet smells entices my senses. Hermione is lying on the ground a few feet from me, smiling, and her eyes are closed as if she were asleep. I kneel down to her, my fingers running up and down her cold, marble-white skin. Murder crosses my mind as I look down at her tattered dress. With a simple touch to her stomach, blood begins to pool up from her; the red liquid slowly stains every inch of the dress, leaving a small puddle around her. The blood begins to stain my fingers. Her empty eyes open to look at me helplessly, her face still wearing that absurd smile.

I stare up at the ceiling, replaying the images from my dream in my head. I decipher what the images mean, but it seems painfully obvious to even the most simple-minded folk: Hermione is going to die.

I have never been wrong about what the images tell me.

~*~

Many days and nights pass, and with each passing day, Hermione transports me to a new destination. It is during her seventy-fifth night of being alive that I begin to hear the comments of the Death Eaters. They fear I am being too lenient with her and that I am growing soft in my ways. To hell with them all, I say. I shall do as I want despite what they think.

Throughout the following weeks, a select group of my Death Eaters continue to pop in and out of the Riddle mansion, bringing to me daily reports of the Order's every move. In addition, it seems that with each passing Death Eater that stops in my house, I am incessantly confronted by peculiar stares. They do not think I notice the stares - they think they are too quick for me - but I see how their eyes casually flicker over my face. Eyes full of suspicion, their minds wonder when I am going to dispose of the "nasty little Mudblood." Without even trying, more of their thoughts slowly start to fill my head like poison: "What does he think he's doing by keeping her alive? What's so special about this one?"

She would not even be alive if I could just break the spell her stories put me under. Perhaps they captivate me so much now because nobody ever told me stories while I was growing up in the orphanage. It is a weakness of mine I know... my Achilles heal. But I shall enjoy taking her worthless life the moment she finishes her seductive spell on me.

~*~

It is on her one hundred and fifteenth day of being my prisoner that I awake and find myself questioning my own motives. I find that many problems can be corrected right after waking up, when the brain is still fresh, but today proved otherwise. Have my own thoughts and ideals been compromised so easily by her words?

Looking to my side, my eyes fall upon her - still sleeping beside me. She is the perfect picture of pure innocence, an almost angelic look etched upon her young face. I reach up to touch her, my hand caressing her arm. Her skin is soft to the touch as my fingers slowly crawl over every part of her body. She thinks she has outwitted me, but she is wrong. Such things are best left when unexpected, and I know that now will be completely unexpected. Hermione stirs slightly, but she doesn't wake up as I gently roll her head over to face me. "Pleasant dreams, Hermione, my little doll," I hiss quietly into her ear. Whether she hears me or not, I do not know.

Watching her sleep, an idea grows in my mind. I pull out my wand, tapping her gently on the shoulder as I whisper the words "Imperio" into the early morning air. Being asleep and under the Imperius is a lethal combination, causing the person to remain a sleep, unable to wake until the Imperius spell is removed. But I do not intend to remove the spell just yet, only after I am finished with her.

Her silent, shallow breathing remains unchanged as I lean over to kiss her on the lips. The emotions growing inside me burn intensely as I pull Hermione closer to me. Almost tearing off her clothes in the process, I look down at her down turned mouth, pressing it up into a smile with my fingers.

"Smile, Hermione, you poor sweet innocent thing," I chide. "It's not like you will remember anything when you wake up...."

I finger her mouth again, turning her smile into a frown.

"Oh, you want to hate me, don't you honey?" I smile.

Her silence is like music to my ears as I tilt her head up to face me. Her lock of chestnut brown hair rests around her face, framing the innocence I am about to take from her. I run my hands down the length of her body, stopping only to allow myself a moment of delight....


	6. Her Weakness

Hermione's PoV  
\---

Day One hundred seventy five

It is a weird feeling, having an out-of-body experience. But it is exactly what I am feeling as I float somewhere up above in a crystal blue sky. Down below, I watch as Tom leans over my body - which is laying spread eagle on the ground. My vacant eyes are open and expressionless, just staring up into the sky... and into me. It sends a quiver down my spine to see myself lying there, dead.

Tom places a finger up to my lips, wiping off a small trickle of blood from my mouth. He touches his bloodied finger up to his own lips, tasting it as if it was something sweet and delicious. He leans over to kiss me on the lips - thus staining them a deep shade of blood red. Tom pulls away, his head still looking down at my lifeless form. His clothes are completely bloody from the contact between him and me. It is then that I can see myself fully: There is a pool of blood around my middle, slowly pooling on the ground next to me. My clothes are stained a deep crimson color as I continue to bleed out from the wounds.

I feel a sharp pain in my stomach as I am jolted awake - away from my lifeless body lying below, away from watching Tom as he kisses my cold lips again. I slowly open my eyes; Tom is watching over me, giving me a mocking little grin that thoroughly irritates me. 

"Wake up, Hermione," he breathes.

As I look up at him, I see he has a bottle of something red in one hand and a small knife in the other. Pain in the palm of my hand shows me where he just cut me. The blood from it stains my sheets. I scowl at him. 

"What in the hell is wrong with you?" I holler, while trying to wrap my injured hand inside the sheets to stem the hemorrhaging.

"Blood has important uses in Dark magic," he notes. "Even Muggle-born filth like you has blood worthy of using."

"You gave me that nightmare, didn't you?" I demand, wincing slightly.

"No," he replies casually. "Contrary to popular belief, I don't cause nightmares, Hermione. One creates nightmares within his or her own mind. I merely cut your hand. You supplied the nightmare yourself."

He, completely uninvited to do so, sits himself down on the side of the bed, looking at me while pursing his thin lips together. Grabbing my hand, he slowly unwraps the bloodied sheets and inspects my hand. Without saying a word, he pulls out his wand and waves it over my palm. The deep cut from it vanishes.

"I very well can't have my storyteller injured now, can I?" he utters before he leaves the room.

I am not a believer in Divination, but right now, I think of how they have often say that most dreams - like mine - are meant to warn people before something bad happens. If this dream is any indication of the future, it seems clear: I am going to die. Feeling rather numb, I lie on the bed, contemplating how my life may very well end soon and this plan to stop Tom may have been all for nothing.

~*~

It has been almost two hundred days since I was brought here, and in that time, the days have come and gone in an absolute blur. Just because I have survived this long with him does not make me feel invincible. On the contrary, I have to wonder what it is he is hiding up those sleeves of his - and how exactly it concerns me. Yet there is a part of me grateful that nothing has happened yet, as I get a sense of solace knowing that I have saved the lives of almost two hundred women so far. Knowing this fact drives me to be more inventive in my storytelling so that Tom will never lose interest in them... or me. Lest I want that nightmare to come true as it still deeply troubles me. Nor do I want other innocent women to find themselves trapped in this situation.

Sitting myself on the edge of his bed, I prepare to tell Tom the rest of my story. There is a heaviness in the pit of my stomach as I look upon his glinting eyes and at the corners of his mouth - which are tugging up slightly into a malevolent smirk. It may be faint, but I know it's there. The appearance of it fills me with dread. He pulls closer to me, my heart racing with every inch he moves toward me. As much as I hate to admit it, even to myself, I can't help but feel slightly attracted by his handsome features, but they mustn't blind me. I move further away, down to the edge of his bed, clearing my throat before I try beginning the rest of my story. However, as I open my mouth to speak, he leans over on top of me, kissing me on the mouth. My mind begins to race as he pulls away, his green eyes staring down at me - hungry for more. He licks his lips as he leans down to kiss me again. As he deepens the kiss, I slowly feel myself begin to kiss him back - against my better  
judgment. Our tongues touch and entwine around each other as my body begins to lose control. My instincts are telling me to pull away, but a small part of me is enjoying this kiss - perhaps a little too much. We continue on, the only sound to escape our mouths is the occasional soft moan here and there.

My instincts are blaring loudly to me as his hands crawl all over my body, touching my chest, my hips, my thighs. Tom pins me down on the bed as I continue to kiss him, my body screaming to continue, but I must stop.... I know what will happen if I don't pull away now.... In just a few moments, he has become my weakness. But I never get the chance to pull away as I suddenly feel my mind become hazy as Tom softly mutters the word "Imperio!" on my lips. "Just so you can't go anywhere, my little story teller."

In an instant, all worries and concerns leave my now fuzzy mind, and I am left completely and utterly at ease. When he finally pulls away from his infectious kiss, we are both breathless. He sits up, pulling me up with him. His voice speaks up in my head: Take off your clothes. I willingly oblige, as I have no control over my own body anymore. 

After a few measly moments pass, I lie on the bed next to him, naked. Tom tells me to come closer to him, and I fall into his now outstretched arms. He gently takes my legs and wraps them around his middle, all the while positioning my arms to his sides, as if I am his personal doll. My skin tingles wherever he touches me.

"I have given you no reason to not tell your story," he murmurs into my ear.


	7. A Devastating Truth

Tom's PoV  
\----

 

Day One Hundred Seventy-Six

 

Hermione sits alone in the bathroom, thinking over the events from the previous night in her head, I am sure. I hear the water slowly filling the tub. Then the knobs give a faint squeal and the sound of water tops. As the minutes tick by, I leave the bedroom; she must surely hear the sounds of my footsteps in the bathroom as she washes any trace of me off her.

It was half-past noon when Hermione finally came down stairs, our first meeting together since this morning. During this time, I am completely alone, mulling the past few months over in my head. I have gotten what I wanted from her; but somehow, it does not seem like enough. I want more from her, but would she be willing to give it to me?

I skulk around the large, empty mansion, watching her out of peripheral vision as she heads into the old library. Quietly I follow her, watching as she grabs a book from one of the many shelves before sitting on an old, ornate couch. Cracking open the old book, she looks as though she is simply at home enjoying reading a good book and not being held prisoner by the Dark Lord.

I follow her into the room, but she is too absorbed in her book to notice my presence. Nonchalantly, I stroll over to the same oak bookcase she was just at, pretending to be interested in looking for a book for myself.

“Amazing, isn’t it, how after one's first intimate encounter, life simply seems to continue on, as though uninterrupted,” I remark, watching her out of the corner of my eye. She turns around to face me, her head lifting ever so little away from the book, and I continue. “Now that I have taken your virginity, I don’t need you anymore. I could just kill you right here and now.”

Her glare becomes more intense; I can feel the heat of it on the back of my neck. Turning my head just an inch more, I could see her face grow red with the loathing that was emanating from her. Throwing the book aside, she stands up and yells out all the pent up ill feelings she has toward me. 

"You think you're so much better than anyone because of the fear you instill in people. You get off on others’ pain and misery, and you're cocky about it too. Well I don't fear you! I feel only pity for someone as horrible as you. Anyone who rapes and beheads women because they can get away with it is a sad, pathetic person. Nobody likes you; you are just a bully - and a selfish, pompous bigot to boot!"

"Don't be so uppity with me, Hermione," I say, slowly feeling anger boil up inside me over being called such hostile things. "You seem to think you're this innocent victim and I'm this big villain, but the truth remains that last night, you were enjoying it as much as I."

"You had me under the Imperius curse! You forced me to have sex with you! Because of the spell, I had no control over my own body!"

"And all the while before the Imperius curse hit you, you never tried to push me away. You kissed me back of your own free will. I felt how your body trembled whenever I touched you. Truth is, you wanted it as much as I did."

"Then why did you put me under the Imperius?" she yells.

I can feel the corners of my mouth tug into a small grin as I slowly walk closer to her. Hermione does not back away from me; she stands tall before me. "I always put my captives under the Imperius as to a means deter any unwanted emotions... or _actions_. I thrive on complete control and dominance over my victims. You are a smart young woman, Hermione; you should know all of that by now. I simply put you under the Imperius because I didn't want you to run away."

Hermione looks me squarely in the eyes. "I wouldn't have run away."

Raising an eyebrow, I nod my head in amazement. "No? You're telling me that if you had the chance to break free, you would have stayed - even knowing what I was about to do to you? Or are you trying to tell me that you might be having _feelings_ for me?" My voice slowly rises to a shout, reverberating against the ceiling, and Hermione recoils slightly from the loudness. "You may not have run that night, but you would have the first time."

As Hermione steels herself for more shouts, she suddenly looks taken aback, her deep brown eyes growing wider over the revelation of my words. "What do you mean 'the first time'?" Her eyes are large, her face a pale cream color, as her the words she speaks are barely above a whisper, almost as if she is afraid of hearing the answer... and the truth.

"You know what I mean, Hermione. Put two and two together, why don't you? Do you remember at any point me hissing ' _pleasant dreams_ ' to you while you were asleep?"

Her chest rises and falls with each breath as she steadies herself. The look upon her face is beyond fury. I barely move out of the way before she slaps me hard across the face, and I stumble back. Blood pounds loudly in my ears as anger reaches the boiling point inside me. First, she says that she would not have left me, and then she has the audacity to strike me. I could not let her get away with that. After regaining my composure, I backhand her hard, causing her to fall sideways to the ground. After a moment, she timidly gets to her feet again as the tears become noticeable in the deepest corners of her eyes. Broken, partially mumbled sentences begin to escape her mouth as she began coughing up a small bit of blood. 

"Oh, now be quiet," I demand as if I am speaking to a troublesome child. Frankly, I hate it when people cry, especially in my presence. Crying is a useless, weak emotion, equally contemptible as love.

Grabbing her by the arm, I drag her through the mansion, taking her the upstairs. Passing through the hallways, I reach a spare bedroom in the far end of the house. Pushing Hermione inside, I slam the heavy wooden door shut on her tear-streaked face.

"You are to never leave this room, if you value your life."


	8. Numb

Hermione's PoV  
\---

 

I don't know how many days have passed; but after losing count, it seems like eternity has come and gone. Voldemort has shut me up in an old, musty room, and sometimes I wonder if he has forgotten me in here. The nights slowly creep by, and right now, it is well past midnight. On this night, I have not fallen asleep, instead, I find myself thinking about how insane he really is. His temper went through the ceiling because not only did I make the mistake of telling him I was starting to have feelings for him, but somewhere I drew up the courage to slap him.

Curling up with a pillow in this dank, dusty room, my stomach feels as if it is riding a wave in a sea of nausea. I have been feeling like this for days on end. Every day I wake up to my stomach feeling queasy, throwing up in the furthest closet of this room so I won't have to look at it or smell it. I know there is something wrong with me...

When I can think clearly and am not engulfed in my nausea, I question myself about why I even started having feelings for him in the first place. How can I actually like someone who rapes and murders women for his own sick pleasure? Confusion doesn't begin to cover my emotions. It feels like I am torn up inside - being ripped into many different pieces, each one gnawing angrily at my already torn insides. I press my eyes closed with my hands, seeing tiny lights dance back and forth on my inner eyelids. As I open them, I can see his face in the darkness ahead. My heart is now beating faster. Tears begin spilling from my eyes; I feel as though I am trapped inside my tormented state and left to rot here. Tom Riddle... _Voldemort_... is literally the devil incarnate. Why did I let my guard down during those nights I told him those stories? No matter what I do, I cannot push these thoughts from my head; I refuse to. My emotions have betrayed me; there is no sensible or logical explanation for my feelings toward him. Yes, he is good looking, but there is so much more to a person than just looks alone.... And when I think of how much I truly love my boyfriend Ron, I feel my heart break all over again as though I were unfaithful to him by having these  
insignificant feelings for the Dark Lord. Maybe I feel this way because he is the only man I have been in contact with for half a year. But whatever has driven me to this startling realization, the only thing that makes me feel slightly better about it is knowing that I actually slapped the Dark Lord... right before he hit me back. 

~*~

The bright sunlight tells me it is early morning. I awake to find him sitting at the edge of my bed. The sight of him startles me, as he is not the first thing I want to see when I open my eyes. He stares down at me rather condescendingly, ordering me to tell him a new story. I refuse, but the same events unfold with each passing morning: He comes in and demands a story from me, as though he has forgotten about our fight from so many nights ago. Each time he asks, I refuse, mentally waiting for him to kill me for my constant refusal of his demands. Instead, he leaves the room, locking it again behind him.

Being trapped in this room for so long has dampened my spirits to the point where I no longer feel the joy of happiness, only the stinging pain of depression as I continually stare out on my bleak surroundings. My time spent in here, locked away like a criminal, has given me a sense of claustrophobia as with each passing minute, hour, and day, I feel as though he has left me to die in this very room. Perhaps he is trying to break me down mentally... he seems to be doing a very good job at it.

It is many mornings later that he places the front section of _The Daily Prophet_ on my bed, right where he knows I can see it. From my spot, I can read clearly the part of the paper he has folded back for me:

** Brave Order Member Killed in Surprise Attack **

"Look," he says, the excitement evident in his voice. He points to the first paragraph, where listed is the name of the recently murdered: Ronald Weasley. My heart stops beating, and my breath catches in my throat.

"Because you have not been telling me stories, I was forced to have your boyfriend killed. You have left me no choice; I wanted your head clear of him."

I can only see his blurred figure through my eyes; the tears are pouring out faster then I can wipe them off. My heart painfully beats in my chest as I slowly begin to realize that I will never see Ron again. While I'm crying my eyes out, Voldemort leaves the room without so much as another word. He leaves the paper in my room as a painful reminder of my supposed betrayal of him. Everywhere I look, my eyes fall upon that paper and its haunting words. I read and reread it again until the words have simply lost all meaning in my numb brain: Ronald is dead.

Laying my head on my tear-soaked pillow, morning slowly shifts into afternoon, shifting into night. I don't think the tears have stopped falling yet. Sometime during the night I fall asleep with my face still very much wet with tears.

Thankfully, the following morning is unusually quiet. As I awake, the first few moments of consciousness are sweet as I temporarily forget the pain and anguish over losing Ron. But when the fog clears from my brain, the remembrance of his death fills my head once more. What has promised to be a beautiful day turns to ashes in the matter of a few painful seconds.

~*~

A week - I am sure - has passed now and still, not a moment has gone by where Tom has gone back to waking me up and demanding another story from me. Honestly, my heart just isn't in them anymore. I wish he would just kill me and be done with it so I can see my beloved Ron again. But no, he is keeping me alive so I can live with this pain. He enjoys the horror I am subjected to by showing me the obituaries of the next person he just had killed... all in my name. Today, he shows me a most heart-wrenching story in _The Daily Prophet_ : Remus and his new wife, Nymphadora, were killed on their wedding night. The person responsible for this atrocity? He is standing in this very room with me, a sick smile plastered over his face.

"So easy to tamper with, love is," he says with a bemused air, leaving the paper where I can see it. "You should have heard her beg me not to kill her husband. And he was just as insistent that I didn't kill his wife. But wherever they are now, they're together again. Isn't that how all stories end? With a supposed ' _happy ending_ '?"

He looks at me with his thin mouth now curving into an even more visible smirk. "Just so you know, I had to do it," he mumbles as he begins to head out the door. "You'll understand."

Somehow, I do not think I will ever understand the way in which his brain works or his own twisted views of what a _happy ending_ is truly about.


	9. My Sacrifice to Her

Tom's PoV  
\---

 

It has become an addiction for me. The fact that it is becoming so easy to pick out the people Hermione is close to causes the game to slowly lose its novelty. Recently, I ordered the rapes and murders of two more of Hermione's friends - Ronald's sister, Ginny, and Luna Lovegood - hoping that with each murder, she will change her mind. But until she does, I will not rest until I kill all the people close to her and she finally relents and begins telling me more of her stories. These seem like harsh measures to take, but I always get what I want in the end, and I intend to get it when I want. But Hermione is being extremely bullheaded and stubborn; it may take some more time for me to break her down. 

I wait a few days before testing her again. This time, I may have found my ace-in-the-hole with the murder of her dearly loved sister Desdemona - in which I took great delight. As I head up to her locked room to tell her the news, I knock on the door to see if she is awake. The bed creaks as I open the door; she must be awake. Hermione does not bother looking at me; instead, she keeps her back facing me as she gets up from the bed.

"You two were close, weren't you?" I ask, breaking the silence. 

"What do you mean?" Her voice sounds harsh and cold, unlike the soft, gentle one I remember so well from she had when she first arrived here.

"Desdemona. She's was sister, wasn't she?" Hermione turns to face me. I raise an eyebrow in an attempt to feign innocence.

"What have you done to her?"

Remaining quiet, I see the wheels turning in her head as she comes to understand why I am here. Her face, if possible, turns shades whiter within a matter of seconds as a dawn of comprehension overcomes her.

"She found herself on the unfortunate end of the _Avada Kedavra_ curse. Pity too, she was so much like you, Hermione, especially when she was under the Imperius. She was so feisty, but she was unable to throw it off all the while -"

"While _what_?" she cuts me off. "You raped her, didn't you? Answer me!" she screams. 

I give a small jerk of my head, suggesting that she was - indeed - correct. I can hear her lungs constricting as she struggles to breathe. The news is simply too much for her to bear. Within seconds her eyes are brimming with tears. Her anger with me has already been long forgotten, having been replaced by grief. She looks up at me, no traces of strength left in her as she falls to the bed, crying. It seems I have dealt the final blow to her emotions.

"She was my sacrifice to you, Hermione," I say with a laugh. "Do you want to know how she died? She died after I was finished with her. And just for clarification purposes, I removed the Imperius from her before I killed her, telling her how you would never be returning to her again. She begged me to leave her be, that I had already hurt her enough, and that she would never tell anyone. But I killed her as she mumbled your name with her last breath."

"Stop! Stop it, now!" Hermione begs, her face pushing into her hands. "Please, what more do you want from me? What can I do to make you stop? To make _all_ of this stop?" Her voice cracks from the emotions as tears continually pour from her eyes.

"Simple," I say, lifting her wet face with the palm of my hand. "Say you will always be here to tell me stories. Tell me you will never leave, not even to see your remaining family or friends again. It will all stop if you just say you'll never leave."

More tears roll down her cheek as she thinks it over. But what other choice does she have? It is either a lifetime of servitude to me or death. I will have it no other way, as either choice she makes is a no lose situation for me. Clearing the congestion from her throat, she closes her eyes, as though what she is about to say is something excruciatingly difficult. "I'll stay."

"Now, was that so difficult for you, Hermione dear?"

~*~

I leave her room a few hours later, adjusting my pants in the process, and feeling as though I am stronger than ever before. I have broken her and bended her toward my will, and nothing can change that now. Even she knows this. Tonight, I will allow her back into my room where she can continue to tell me more of her adventurous tales for as long as I desire to hear them. Until I grow tired of her, I will not kill her. She will remain under my surveillance for the rest of her life.

As I travel down the darkened hallway away from her room, I wonder just how much it kills her to know that she will never leave my presence. She will eventually learn to understand that there will be no way I will ever give her up.

~*~

The waiting is murder as I sit alone in my bedroom, waiting for her to come to my door. She will finish telling me another of her tales tonight or face the consequences. Already she is a few minutes late, but I do not feel the need to worry. Hermione is smart enough to know not to try anything as foolish as trying to escape from me. The many ways I can track my enemies down frighten most people. And what I do to people who disobey me is something no one wishes to inflict upon him or herself.

My ears pick up the sounds of shuffling feet by the door; perhaps she has finally decided to grace me with her presence. I order her to enter, and she reluctantly does so. As though those past weeks never happened, she positions herself at the end of my bed, clearing her throat before heading into another one of her stories. The only reminder of her lockup is how she continually looks upon the floor; she used to look me directly in the face, as though trying to challenge me. I casually notice her hands twitch, as her eyes bore into the carpet. I know she is dying to forget everything; but under these circumstances, she is finding it almost impossible to do so now.

Hermione turns her head to face me; her eyes look tired and red, and there is the sense of defeat in her voice.

"I did not tell you to stop speaking," I say with a frown.

Without saying a word, her eyes flicker over my wand lying on the night table, eyeing it for a few moments before returning to her story.


	10. Finally Free / One Last Time

Hermione's PoV  
\---

The sun is bright in my eyes. I open them up and look around; it is early morning, and today, I am the first to awake. Still partially dressed, I carefully get up as to not wake Tom. Reaching into my bra, I pull out the small knife I kept hidden there all night. He is sound asleep, so this should make it easier. I grip the knife more tightly as I watch his chest slowly rise and fall, thinking of how quickly everything in my once happy life changed because of this sadistic man. He raped, murdered, and hurt wizard-kind for far too long, and I intend to make it stop right now. Raising the knife, I hold it over his chest as he slowly opens his eyes.

"Wait! What do you think you're doing?" he hollers. But in a strange twist of irony, I know there is no one here to hear him screaming. Tom tries to stop my hand from going down, but he is still weak from just having woken up. Anger courses through my veins as the memory of my dead sister fill my head. He lets out a loud wail of pain as his blood spatters me, the walls, and the bed.

"That was for Desdemona," I breathe.

He cries out in agony again.

"This is for all the women you've hurt, and all the lives you've destroyed."

I stab him again. As his wails of pain fill the air, he tries to grab the knife out of my hands, but I pull it back from him. I feel a rush come over me as I realize how simple killing someone is. The rush is almost intoxicating... almost addicting. 

"And this... this is from me. May you rot in hell, you bastard."

I deliver my final blow... right into the empty void where his heart should have been, but it was not.

Tom gasps for breath - short labored breath - as I drop the knife and leave his room. I do not know if he will die from my attack, as he has many Horcruxes that prevent him from dying, but I do not want to wait and find out. If he survives, he will surely kill me, and I do not want to give him that chance. If I am going to die, and I most certainly will, I want it to be on my terms, not his.

I run down the halls, my bare feet pounding loudly on the wooden floors as I pass through the mansion, up a flight of stairs to the third floor, where I come upon a dead end. The only thing I meet is a small ornate table and a glass vase filled with long-since-dead roses. Above me, I spot a small recess in the ceiling. Perhaps it is an entrance to the attic. I throw aside the vase and climb up on the table, reaching up to the small recess. I push, but it does not budge. I push again, this time with more force, and it slowly starts to move. With it to the side, I hoist myself up, making my way into the attic. Down below, I hear the sounds of creaking floorboards. Not knowing if this is Tom or just the normal sounds from an old house, I hurry along, as I don't know how much time I have and the rush of adrenaline is telling me to get this over quickly.

Across the dusty attic is a window that overlooks the massive grounds, perfect for me to use. It hasn't been opened in ages by the looks of it, but as I pull on it, the rusty hinges break, allowing me to pass through. I stand on the roof, letting the breeze rustle my hair and cool my sweaty face. I am four stories above ground level now. I never expected it to come to this, to end this way; but now that it has, I am faced with no other option. I turn to face the window, extending my arms to the side and lean back into a graceful arch. My feet slowly leave the outlet as memories begin to flood my head....

It was all over within a matter of seconds: My entire life was snuffed out as quickly as the flame of a candle. I look down on the ground, at my lifeless body and at the pool of blood encircling my head like a morbid halo, and realize that I am finally free from of him.

* * *

Tom's Pov  
\---

 

The pain is excruciating. Each step I take, I feel her stabbing me repeatedly. Thankfully, I did not die from the attack. A normal person would have, but I am no mere person. Every precautionary step I have taken has ensured me eternal life. Yet nothing I do can alleviate this wretched pain.

Though I have performed a self-healing spell on myself, the wounds have not healed thoroughly yet. As such, I find myself stumbling through the mansion as I look for that traitor who stabbed me. She will pay, of course, but merely taking her life would not suit me enough. No, perhaps it would be better to make her endure the torment of watching me as I slaughter the rest of her family one by one....

As I fumble down the stairs, I take a quick peek outside and something catches my eye. I hurry down the remaining few steps when I see something or someone lying on the ground. Throwing open the door, I spot Hermione's lifeless body spread eagled on the ground. Pushing aside her bushy hair and looking down at her half-closed eyes, she appears only to be sleeping or unconscious at most. Placing a finger on her neck, I check for a pulse, but I know there is none to be found. Her heart has  
stopped beating, but she is still warm to the touch as I wipe away the blood from her mouth. Lifting her head away from the pool of crimson on the  
ground, I lean down to kiss her one last time the lips.

"Pleasant dreams, Hermione," I hiss at her as I position her mouth into an absurd smile that faces vacantly up at me.

Though I am lucky to be alive after her attack, I am not at ease. Her other friend and my mortal enemy, Harry Potter, is still out there somewhere, searching for the rest of my Horcruxes. If he succeeds in destroying them, I will be dead, but until I know for certain my Horcruxes are safe, I cannot rest. I can only take solace in knowing that he is completely unaware of his two best friends being murdered....

~*~

I stand on the outside of a large brick house looking in through the glass windowpanes. Sitting inside is a distraught family mourning the loss of their two daughters, Desdemona and Hermione, whose bodies I placed on their doorstep. The mother holds Hermione's lifeless body in her arms, not caring that her daughter’s blood has now stained her hands a shade of deepest crimson. Her father has tears running down his cheeks. I turn to leave, not wishing to see them. Seeing such emotions is incredible, but these emotions are humanity's downfall... its weakness.

The End

**Author's Note:**

> This was one of my first dark fics, written back in 2008, I think.... Just now getting it up to AO3.... I am slow... lol.


End file.
